


Ceramic Heart

by CasualCosplay



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: Angst, Canon LGBTQ Character, Fainting, Fever, Illness, Lonliness, Nonbinary, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tea, Whump, chubby martin, jonmartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualCosplay/pseuds/CasualCosplay
Summary: Under the impression he's just under a lot of stress, Martin doesn't realize he's ill. He passes out. Jon and Tim find him.ORIn Which Lonely Martin Forgets to Fucking Take Care of HimselfSPOILERS: Seasons 3/4 (sort of, just like, if you wanna be safe, mostly in the notes, so if you just skip the beginning notes you should be fine.)CW: Illness, Going to work ill, mention of weight loss, loneliness, self-hate
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 75





	Ceramic Heart

**Author's Note:**

> My girlfriend broke up with me, so I’m using fanfiction to cope. John’s nonbinary because fuck you, that’s why. I don’t know when this is set. Kinda season 4 for some Lonely Martin angst, but also Tim’s alive, so... use your imagination I guess. Not from London, so... see previous line about imagination. I'm in the middle of a re-listen.

Martin reached for the bathroom counter as he stepped into the cool air beyond the shower curtain, the sudden temperature drop making his head spin and his skin prickle. He clutched, white-knucked at the sink for several deep, steadying breaths, then pushed on. He was late for work. He dressed quickly, yanking on a jumper from the back of his closet to cover up the wrinkles in the shirt he had picked up off the floor, and looped a belt around the jeans that were starting to become too big. He’d lost weight in the last few weeks. Stress, he expected. It could all be chalked up to stress.

The commute was tolerable. He exchanged awkard small talk with a woman at the tube station refilling her oyster card, and bumped into a group of teens who eyed him like he had a stain on his shirt. (He double checked. He didn’t.) The walk to the Institute was in the company of a brisk wind that kept blowing up Martin’s collar and threatening to wrestle his drying hair into an awkward quiff that didn’t suit him at all. Tim definitely noticed as he walked into the office, giving Matrin a low whistle and a cheeky grin that Martin ignored, blushing.

“Hair looks good, Martin,” Sasha chirped at him as he walked past, and Martin ran his fingers through it, trying to flatten it self-consciously.

Inevitably, and worst of all, he ran into Jon, who stopped with an, “Oh, Martin, didn’t see you—,” their eyes lingering on Martin’s hair too.

“’Morning, Jon.” Short, clipped and without eye contact. Martin pushed past them. He needed a lie down. Static nibbled at the edges of his vision, and he was having a hard time getting a good breath of air in. A good cup of tea couldn’t hurt either. Martin dropped his things at his desk and shuffled to the break room, which was mercifully empty. He busied himself with the kettle and leaned his elbows against the counter in an attempt to quell the shakiness seeping into his bones.

He nearly tossed the tea over Jon’s oversized jumper as he tried to leave the break room. Jon jumped, making several startled and flustered spluttering sounds that Martin interpreted as exasperation at nearly having thier jumper ruined.

“S-sorry, Jon.” Martin pulled himself against the wall, letting Jon pass and using the opportunity for extra support. He pulled his second hand back up to his mug when it started shaking in his fingers. He intended to keep walking. To get back to his desk where he could close the door. Close everyone else out, get to work on all of the useless work Peter had him doing just to keep him busy. But Jon’s hand lingered on Martin’s elbow.

“Are you all right, Martin?” They didn’t say it with simpathy, even concern. It had more tones of command than question. Stiff, impassive.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Martin said. He couldn’t meet Jon’s eyes through the lie. Jon spent a second more holding Martin’s elbow, and fleetingly, selfishly, Martin wished they would insist. Guide him to the sofa and ask him to sit down, easing the tea from him and asking again, really asking, what was wrong. Why he’d been avoiding everyone, why he couldn’t look anyone in the eye. But through the haze, through the thick fog of loneliness and loyalty and promise, he couldn’t hold on to that desire long enough to tell Jon the truth. He would get back to his desk, and he would be fine if he sat down, alone, with the lights of and the curtains closed. 

And the door locked. 

Martin’s vision distorted, a low ringing rising in his ears. Martin didn’t hear the mug shatter against the floor, but he glanced down at his fingers and they were empty. Jon said something. Martin’s name, maybe. He loved the way Jon said his name, slowly and deliberately, drawing out the “a” and clipping it off at the end. Like he got impatient in the middle. Usually it was accompanied by a note of exasperation. All of Jon’s words were like that, at least when they were speaking to Martin.

“Hey, Martin, can you here me?” That was Tim’s voice. Martin dragged his eyelids open. He was on the ground, arm throbbing from his shoulder all the way into his fingers. Something hard pressed into his back. Tim leaned over him, one hand gently holding him on the floor, trying to shake him awake.

“S-sorry,” was the first thing Martin could think to say.

“What on earth are you apologizing for?” Tim asked, eyebrows trying so hard to convey incredulity that they might’ve been trying to weave themselves together.

“I don’t—I mean...” he gestured to the shards of mug and tea they were both sitting among. “I dropped the tea.”

“The institute can survive with one less mug, I think.” Jon’s dry voice caused Martin to stiffen, coming from behind Martin, which meant—

Martin sat up quickly, pushing himself off Jon’s lap and sacrificing all sense of direction in the process. “Sorry,” he said again. Tim didn’t even try to chide him this time.

“Martin, lie back down, you’ve just fainted,” he said.

Martin resisted, pressing his palms against his eyelids until the dizziness passed. “That’s—God, sorry. That’s embarassing. I—Sorry. I’ll get back to work now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,” John snapped, harsher than they meant probably, but it stalled Martin long enough that he didn’t try to stand up. “Anyhow, I didn’t do a great job catching you I’m afraid. May have hit your head if Tim hadn’t come along when he did. You’re heavier than you look.” They said this with a slight chuckle, catching Martin off guard enough that he almost forgot to feel self-concious. Tim too, apparently, who was looking at them as if they’d sprouted a third eye.

“What?” Jon looked so genuinely confused Martin wanted to laughed too. He might’ve laughed anyway at the absurdity of Jon catching him in the corridor as he fainted in thier skinny arms, collapsing under Martin’s not inconsiderable bulk. It was a quickly sobering thought.

Tim brushed the hair out of Martin’s face and pressed the back of his fingers to Martin’s forehead before he could go back to insisting he was fine and clambering to his feet.

“Christ, Martin. You’re burning up. Why’d you even come to work if you’re ill?”

“I’m not ill. I’ve just been working too hard. It’s stress.”

Jon scoffed at the same time as Tim said, “yeah, I’ll believe that when Jon takes a holiday.” Tim jammed a thumb at Jon.

“I’ve had a holiday before.”

“Camping out at Georgie’s house becasue you’re suspected for murder doesn’t count.” Jon spent the next several seconds opening and closing thier mouth, but not quite coming up with a response. Tim ignored them and pulled Martin to his feet, steadying him by the shoulder as he grabbed at the wall. “Martin, go have a lie down in the storage room, and I’ll get you a cup of water and a new tea.”

Martin shuddered. “I’d rather it be in my office. I’ve a sofa in there and I can close the blinds." Tim nodded and walked with Martin slowly back to his desk, turning the lights out for him as he left the room. Martin was half asleep before the door had even closed behind him.

A soft knock pulled him back into consciousness. Martin expected Tim with the tea, but it was Jon who entered. They pulled a chair away from the wall, turning it into a make-shift side table beside the sofa and set the tea and a glass of water on top.

“Thanks, Jon.” Martin murmured, letting himself look Jon in the face just once. Jon’s soft smile was intoxicating, addictive, a rarity that gave Martin butterflies. He closed his eyes and draped his arm over his face for good measure. Jon took this as their sign to leave, catching the door so it closed quietly as they left. Martin didn’t fall asleep for another hour, that stupid, irresistable smile burned into his eyelids and his traitorous heart fluttering wildly against his adam’s apple. He couldn’t help feeling he’d made his heart as fragile as his ceramic mug. All he had to do was drop it, and it would shatter into too many pieces to reconstruct. Maybe he’d get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Do it himself so no one else ever got the chance. So Jon couldn’t do it first.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos Appreciated!
> 
> \--Casual Cosplay <3


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